


Of Mortal Men

by Native



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Blink and you'll miss it, Gen, M/M, Pairings but not really, definitely angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5738572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Native/pseuds/Native
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There are times when he is unable to say if he fears him or fears for him, and there are times when it’s both. It’s Hawke that people see, Hawke that they turn to, Hawke that leads his merry band of misfits through the sludge that is Kirkwall, but Anders, maybe only to him, has always felt like more, a towering presence upon a battlefield he cannot see, larger than Hawke himself, larger than Varric, larger than the city. Larger than himself. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Mortal Men

**Author's Note:**

> _And then his sword is level with my chest, and I let it come, because it is only steel and cannot hurt me, for I am not of mortal men._  
>  —Anders' short story (Jennifer Hepler)

Electricity, cracking all over, and it’s too late to do anything but wait, an instant, almost an eternity, for the sizzling of his flesh and the pain that will follow; his death, maybe. A memory is trying to spring under his eyes, but it’s too late, he was too late, and he can almost taste the burn on his tongue when a roar of energy howls before him. Thunder explodes upon it, a hundred of stars blossoming in his pupils, and he is left unarmed. After that, he lets his body do the thinking for him, and with renewed vigour, does his best to put an end to the thing, the _magister_ , Corypheus, it was called. Later, he’ll grind his teeth and want to bleed, thinking of the abomination’s protection, as he always does.

But this is not the time. They have faced many an opponent before, and not only petty thieves and assassins from the dark corners of Kirkwall, but formidable ones. It would be foolish to deny that Corypheus' power dwarfs them all, the female dragon, majestic and brutal (— _dracosire_ , and he still hear the flapping of wings of the smaller ones, and their terrible, pitiful cries), the one who called himself his master, his rotten web of blood spells forever torn asunder, among others. Anders had been there then, too, and he recalls another web, veins of white and blue etched from the tip of long fingers to strong forearms, from high cheekbones to somewhere under his clothes, on his neck, like a noose, and he is convinced that the lines of light go forever around the abomination, forever, yes, forever through his heart.

—

Somewhere on his left, he feels more than sees the shield that spares Fenris a world of pain, and not for the first time, he is grateful. No matter the jabs, the insults, the cruel barbs, even, never has Anders failed in his duty as a healer. He could have, at any time, any moment, and there could have been a hundred of different excuses and no one could nor would have known, not for sure, but it has never happened. _Weariness_ , he could say, because he never seems tired, always ready to go on, one step further, just a little more, and he is bound to break one day, surely.

Often enough, Hawke bits his lip and lets his hands feel for himself in the dark and imagines long, feverish nights of this  _just a little more_ for himself. He is always left with a fluttering in his heart and a shiver all over his body after these, like a brutal, cruel awakening; the light of the new day feels stark and unforgiving on his naked body, as if displaying his weaknesses, replaying his whispers and quivering for everyone to see, but it’s all he can do not to take Anders for himself, and Anders would say yes, but.

Hawke fears him.

There are times when he is unable to say if he fears him or fears for him, and there are times when it’s both. It’s Hawke that people see, Hawke that they turn to, Hawke that leads his merry band of misfits through the sludge that is Kirkwall, but Anders, maybe only to him, has always felt like more, a towering presence upon a battlefield he cannot see, larger than Hawke himself, larger than Varric, larger than the city. Larger than himself.

—

Carver had never fought with another mage before Anders. He had been raised with two and lived with three, but it wasn’t the same, and Ostagar had been nothing more than a debacle, almost erased from his mind— _if only_. He is a Warden now, and there are mages in the Wardens, more and more of them, even, but none of their spells, not one of them, feel like Anders’. Familiar, because he was the first, Carver knows, though his presence now is foreign.

The Taint is like an thread unravelling. Pull on it, and you will see all that is alike to you, around you, a conflagration of wires, and this is how you know where to go, or not. Carver pulls often in the days under the Vinmark Mountains, and there is darkspawn, and Anders, like a tingle in his mouth, and he rolls his tongue but that’s not enough. It had not been relevant before, what Anders was, he could not have understood, would not have wanted to. He was a child then, and he pulls again and again, like a child in this still, in search of Anders, even when he is next to him, and wonders if Anders does the same.

Sometimes when he dreams Warden dreams he feels steady hands on him in the dark.

—

They won’t be able to go on like this much longer. Justice calls it _Antiphona_ , Anders has only ever called it the Song. If he could have thought of it as a song, only a song, so simple a thing, instead, maybe it would have stripped it of power, but broken as it is, it’s the most beautiful thing he has ever heard, and— Justice presses upon his mind, _focus, Anders, focus_. There were dreams in Amaranthine, they're always worse during a Blight and it wasn't a Blight but they were the same dreams still, Amell had said, the same dreams, only without purpose, and he strains to recall the Mother—a deformed, pathetic thing, and for her it had felt like mercy.

He expands the Fade, more reflex than thought, and a storm of lightning smashes upon the shield he has raised, only just. Fenris never lowers his guard but he just did, and they are bordering on exhaustion even as he deals spell after spell, as wounds close and burns are soothed, something for the pain, and oh, it was only a matter of time—they fell the Architect but Amell was here and Oghren had fought darkspawn before and Justice was outside of him, but it was then and it is now, and now Corypheus turns to face him.

A healer is a healer is a healer, and he and Corypheus’ eyes meet and they both know. Lightning again, Anders recognises, and the way the spell is snapped into being feels like a blade, and Hawke is too surprised, Fenris too far and Carver not enough.

_And so they let it come, because it is only magic and cannot hurt them, for they are not of mortal men._

He notices the shock in the magister’s eyes distantly, like an inconsequential thing he cannot help feeling on the edge of his sensations, transfixed as he is by the clarity, Justice pushing at the edges, filling every crack, drowning even the lullaby in his ears, the pounding of his heart, and then the thunderbolt has gone through him and back to the Fade. He sees Hawke release the intricate spell he was weaving, exploiting Corypheus’ instant of stupefaction, and then it is over.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been fascinated by this quote from the short story for a long time. It's not exactly the story I had in mind (not at all, even), but I really like it, or what's behind it, anyway. I hope you liked it too.


End file.
